


Whouffle Week 2020

by Nehszriah



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Coats, Confused Angst, Dancing, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Happy Doctor Who Day/Week here's my faves that the Beeb ignores, Humor, Nightmares, Post-Episode: s09e10 Face The Raven, Potential Nightmare Fuel, Prompt Fic, Twelve and Clara adopt a random child AU, Twelve is just a blushing teenager with his crush, WILL ADD MORE TAGS AS I UPDATE, Whouffle Week, it's a good thing Nardole's not around to disapprove, non-sexual nudity, pushing the line of the rating for the sake of not changing anything, that thing where you're telling a kid a story but it's really a vague confession, wedding crashing, whouffle week 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27684140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: Prompts to celebrate Doctor Who Day/Week (and let's be honest, Clara's birthday), here in 2020!Day 1: "How does that feel?"Day 2: fix you/dreams or nightmaresDay 3: Misunderstanding/Bad timingDay 4: Coat/Outerwear//FoodDay 5: Phobia/Missing SceneDay 6: Eternity/Fairytales (featuring Neil Oswald (fromFrom Kertix to Shoreditch)Day 7: Dancing/Flowers
Relationships: Twelfth Doctor & Bill Potts, Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 30
Kudos: 50
Collections: Whouffle Week 2020





	1. "How does that feel?"

**Author's Note:**

> I’m part of a Discord server called Clara’s Diner, where we mostly talk about Doctor Who, ns7-10 specifically, and they organized a Whouffle Week for Clara’s birthday/the anniversary of the show! I actually prepared this time for a daily prompt session (aka: did most of it ahead of time), so here’s my contributions.
> 
> 867 words; I actually wrote a decent chunk of this during work during a super-duper-slow day I shall not see the likes of again until maybe next year; contains a bit of angst, as well as some non-sexual nudity; this week of prompts is going to be a lot like my Cozytober prompts, as in just some short scenes so I have some chance at finishing this unlike when I’ve tried and failed at similar things in the past

It had been a long couple weeks of running.

After landing in the middle of a revolution, irritating all three factions, getting thrown in prison no less than five times (in all honesty, they had lost count), and nearly being executed twice, it was very much an unsaid agreement that they both needed some downtime. With the TARDIS drifting in the vortex, the Doctor and Clara shuffled into her bedroom, nearly ready to collapse.

“You’re cute like this,” she weakly chuckled. He began peeling off his inner hoodie (the outer one still in the console room, already dropped to the floor) and raised an eyebrow at her.

“…like what…?”

“About ready to fall over in exhaustion.” She watched as the inner hoodie finished coming off his body, leaving a jumper over t-shirt. “How often does a Time Lord get this tired?”

“More often than you think,” he replied. After kicking off his boots, he waited until Clara had her soiled blouse off before helping with the back clasps of her now-rancid bra. “There was this one time with Romana and K-9…”

“Save it for another time,” she said, cutting him off. Now was not the time. Her trainers and skirt were next, leaving just her knickers. “Think you’re still awake enough for a bath?”

“Always,” he replied before pecking her on the cheek. She gave him a wink before grabbing some fresh clothes from the chest of drawers and heading towards the bathroom, glad the TARDIS had enough sense to attach it, unlike in the past, when she had to search no fewer than three corridors before finding one.

Since the ship was one of theoretically-infinite space, it seemed appropriate that the bathroom it conjured for her occupants was grandiose beyond compare. It was as big as her flat—at least, nearly—made of warm stone and weathered wood. The in-floor tub, which was only that because it was too small to be a pool, sat empty and waiting. She put her clean pajamas on a counter and grabbed the soaps and shampoo she wanted to use, putting the bottles next to the tub. The moment she took one step down into the stone bath, water began to flow from one of the taps at the perfect temperature. A couple of tweaks to some more nozzles and the calming scents of lavender and jasmine began to waft about the space. She got rid of her knickers and sat down in the built-in seat, allowing the water to fill up around her as she closed her eyes to unwind.

Oh! How good it felt to let the warm, fragrant water slowly crawl its way up, stopping halfway along her upper arms. She hummed in satisfaction at the sensation—it truly was the way to decompress after all the stress. It was so relaxing that she didn’t even open her eyes as she heard another set of feet pad across the floor, step into the bath, and softly splash about before coming to her side. A pair of arms wrapped around her waist under the water and a face settle gently against her shoulder.

“That feels so much better,” the Doctor sighed. Clara opened her eyes and saw him floating in the bath amongst the bubbles—definitely something she hadn’t ordered, but leave it to the TARDIS to attempt to protect her thief’s decency—definitely more clingy than she anticipated. He had become prone to cuddling more since they had settled into their current pattern, despite his claims as to otherwise, and after a hard adventure, it usually took him quicker to hold on and not let go.

Honestly? They were currently at record time.

“Everything’s alright,” she reminded him. She played idly with his hair that, despite being wet, refused to stay down. “We’re here in the TARDIS again… nothing is going to hurt us in here…”

“…as far as we’re aware,” he said. His arms squeezed her a little tighter before he sat up and looked her in the face—no more hiding behind the hug. “Even I get afraid sometimes, you know.”

“I know.” She guided his face down and pressed her lips to his. “Let’s just enjoy this relaxing soak, alright? At least you’re not barging into my bathroom with an eyepatch and a stuffed swordfish this time.”

“You don’t want to let that go, do you?” he teased.

“No—the swordfish was gross. I was trying to have a relaxing soak and you invaded while smelling like dead fish.”

“That was completely a coincidence.”

“Mmmhmm, sure.” She shoved a handful of bubbles in his face and smirked. “There. Now you smell decidedly _less_ of dead things and more of decent hygiene.” Suds slid off his face until he only had the fluffy, white bubbles on his chin, making for an odd-looking beard.

“I _always_ smell of decent hygiene, Clara,” he pouted.

“Tell that to the hoodies that are gaining sentience as we speak… and don’t even mention those socks.”

“Claaa _raaa_ …”

“Wash up first, _then_ you can ‘Claaaraaa’ me as much as you like,” she insisted. She reached through the bubbles and poked his nose, which made him scowl under his bubble-beard all the more.


	2. Dreams/Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 887 words; contains potential nightmare fuel for Amy’s Choice; takes place mid-s9 (duh) and is also foreshadowing for what’s to come; I get the feeling most of the fic writers also went this route so it’s really interesting to see how all that converged

The Doctor hated it when he dreamed. Time Lords, thanks to things he’d rather not think about, were very vivid and lucid dreamers, with an element that made it so one was never entirely sure they were sleeping until they woke up. Sometimes he wondered if he had dreamt certain places, events, even people, until he’d find evidence of them scattered throughout the TARDIS.

He stared at the leaf in front of him, not sure why it was there. Hovering in the air in the middle of the corridor, it wasn’t blocking his way, per say, but it was too prominent to ignore. The only noise that passed was the idle hum of the ship drifting in neutral.

“What are you?” he mused aloud. He hunched over to take a closer look, gently touching the leaf on the biggest point. “Do you know what this is…?”

He froze.

Her name.

Rassilion’s left sack—why couldn’t he remember?

As he turned around, the leaf followed him, a sweet, squeaking noise coming from it. The leaf positioned itself in front of him again, hovering with a newfound menace.

“Tell me,” he demanded, “what are you?”

The leaf squeaked and moved in a circle before floating down the corridor. It shimmered as it moved—this was no ordinary leaf. He walked over to where the leaf was and it squeaked again, floating further down the corridor, encouraging him to continue following.

The Doctor pulled the sonic shades out from his pocket and put them on, analyzing his surroundings as he went. Everything seemed to be in working order, which made him frown as he considered the idea that he might not have been dreaming. Maybe if he jumped a little bit, he could fly…?

Nope—not a chance.

Following the leaf with caution, the Doctor found other things in the meantime that tugged at the hole in his memory: a stack of books, a cup of tea, a motorbike, and even a pair of oven mitts holding a soufflé. It was such an eclectic assortment of things that had been strewn about that he didn’t notice that the leaf had stopped until he nearly walked right into it.

Another squeak and the leaf whizzed about, jettisoning itself across the room. He was in the console room now, which he definitely took notice of; everything felt cold and empty, despite the massive amount of care that had been put into making it cozier than before. A small pile of clothes sat neatly on a chair—what the…? He took the sonic shades off and pocketed them again as he went to get a closer look…

Before he had the chance to touch them, the leaf spun around the clothes and animated them, making it so that it seemed an invisible person was wearing them. The Doctor brought his hand up to inspect the air above the knit jumper, only to feel someone’s face beneath his fingers instead.

“ _Just see me_.”

He took his hand back and stumbled in shock. Who was that?! _What_ was that?! The animated set of clothes approached him, stopping a few paces away.

“ _Are we just ghosts to you?_ ”

A heavy weight dropped in the Doctor’s gut. It was just some clothes—a jumper, skirt, leggings, and boots—yet with the way it moved, the way it acted of its own volition, terrified him.

Who was supposed to be in those clothes?

Looking around, he tried to find some hints that would lead him to the identity of the clothes’ owner, possibly even something to get him to wake up. The Doctor tripped over himself and landed on his rear, now only able to crab-scurry away as the specter came closer. He didn’t know what was causing this, nor did he want to know.

All he wanted to do was shout her name.

He tried to mouth it—didn’t work.

What was it?!

He tried to scream—not a sound came out.

No!

His limbs could no longer move as full panic set in. The empty clothes came closer, and closer, reaching out towards him and—!

Sitting straight up, the Doctor woke from his nightmare in the pitch of night. The movement disturbed the other person in the bed, causing her to moan as she found the heat source she had been holding onto was no longer in her arms.

“Doctor…?” she asked blearily. She noted that the Time Lord was breathing heavily, which alerted her to the idea that something a bit worse was at-play. Sitting up, she placed a hand on his back and felt that he had broken out into a cold sweat. He looked at her, eyes wide and wet with tears.

“…Cla…ra…?”

“Doctor? Doctor, what’s wrong?” She felt how heavily his hands were trembling as they went up her arms and found her face, cradling it gingerly. He stroked her hair and wavered; this wasn’t easy.

“I… I dreamt I forgot you,” he choked out.

“You silly boy,” she tutted. She laid back down and brought his head along to rest against her chest, allowing him to listen to her heart as she caressed him. “It was only a dream. Nothing to worry about, yeah?”

“…yeah.”

…except, he couldn’t help feel that foreboding dread still bearing down on him without mercy.


	3. Misunderstanding/Bad Timing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 948 words; this one is a bit wild so strap in kids; definitely contains some TARDIS hanky-panky (not that the ship is enjoying that); I kinda just stopped bc I don’t want to go and change the rating level of this set and it’s, like, already pushing it you’ll see what I mean in just a tic

Everyone in the room stared at Clara as she stood in the doorway, panting heavily as she attempted to catch her breath. Good—she stopped things just in time, and she didn’t care how sweaty and disheveled and absolutely not-invited-to-this-ceremony she looked.

“…what did you say…?” the priestess at the altar said. Her lip curled in disgust as Clara began to walk towards them, tracking mud and gunk across the very expensive rug.

“I said that you can’t let this wedding continue,” Clara said. She took note of how many people were in the hall, both Gallifreyanoid and not, and she could feel the pressure on her. Then again, she’d taught Year Eight—she’d been under worse pressure. “The grooms don’t love each other, they don’t even get along, _and_ one of them is already married!”

“Then why is the Doctor standing here of his own volition?” the prince asked. He motioned at the man standing across from him, who seemed to be ignoring his travelling companion’s outburst. “He said he was a widow—you were there.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he’s not spoken for,” she hissed. The closer she got to the altar, the more the other guests began to wonder what was going on. “That was fairly sneaky, thinking that if you could get me out of the picture—hiding me in the dungeon—then the Doctor was free for the taking. Well let me tell you something: _you thought wrong_.”

“This… uh… must be a big misunderstanding…!”

“Not if you take _this_ into consideration!” Clara was finally at the altar and her hand went for the Doctor’s head. The prince panicked and attempting to push the human interloper away, but it was too late: she pulled the blinking metal device out of the Doctor’s hair and let it drop to the ground, smashing it underneath her boot. The Time Lord blinked and shook his head slightly—there was quite the headache beginning to set in.

“Clara…? What’s going on?”

“This man,” she announced, pointing at the prince, “is guilty of kidnapping, brainwashing, coercion, and who knows all what else he was planning for _after_ the ceremony!” There was a collective gasp from the audience; they were at least smart enough to connect _those_ dots.

“…that explains a lot,” the Doctor muttered under his breath. He felt the little spot in his fluff of hair where the mind-control device sat and nodded, impressed. “That’s a nasty little piece of tech if it was supposed to take over my mind. It’s almost like you were _planning_ on us showing up here.”

“That is absurd,” the priestess snapped. “Why would His Highness…?!”

“Don’t think you’re sitting safe and pretty either,” Clara growled. “You’re in on it as well. Why else would you agree to marry someone very clearly against their will?”

“Why would **_I_** be in on such a plan?!”

“…because what better prize than a prince _and_ a lord of time?” Clara heard another collective gasp; this was almost too easy.

“…and what gives you the right to say all these things?” the prince asked. “Why must _you_ stop us with these lies and that bit of destroyed metal that you quickly crunched?”

“This is why,” the Doctor said. He grabbed Clara and kissed her deeply, taking everyone in the hall by complete surprise, including Clara. For extra flair, he went and dipped her down, literally sweeping her off her feet, much to the prince’s anger.

“Guards! Seize them!”

“Oops, gotta run,” the Doctor grinned. He let go of Clara and they both began to sprint for the door. Guards that had been stationed there tried to put down their pikes to block their path, but the two time-and-space travelers slid once the rug ran out, utilizing the smooth stone floor instead.

“We’re finishing that later, I hope you realize,” Clara insisted as they continued to run through the corridor. They banked a hard right and avoided—at least temporarily—a fresh set of soldiers running to catch them.

“How did you know I wasn’t acting myself?” he asked. They slid down a bannister. “What was the major tell?”

“You couldn’t have seen me even if you tried with that thing stuck to your head,” she replied. They just barely dodged another set of soldiers and were at the TARDIS doors. After fumbling with the key and getting in, they locked the door behind them and both rushed for the console. Hitting things into gear was simple enough, and within moments they were back in the safety of the time vortex, no longer within the mechanizations of the Pywenihg High Court.

Looking at one another, the Doctor and Clara silently acknowledged the other’s state before crashing into a frenzied kiss. All the adrenaline they had just built up had nowhere to go, and at least this would release it semi-constructively. Clara hefted herself into the Doctor’s arms, holding onto his hips with her legs as she otherwise gripped his hair and shoulders tight. He stumbled backwards and eventually staggered into the stairs, sitting down on one of the steps. With his hands on her rear, he let himself melt in her grasp—he was absolutely powerless to stop her.

…then again, it wasn’t like he really wanted to stop.

Clara inhaled deeply as she broke the kiss, nearly drowning in the sea that was him. He gently took one of her hands in his and brought it to his lips, not breaking eye contact the entire time.

“I knew you had my back,” he said.

“Only because you have mine,” she reminded him.

She bent down to kiss him again—all was right in the universe.


	4. Coat/Outerwear//Food

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 663 words; kind of goes for all three things at once and I’m not sorry; here’s a nice fluffy and domestic cooldown to yesterday’s steaminess; I make no apologies for Clara’s sass because really now this is very likely one of the side-effects of living in a sentient space-time ship with a unlimited wardrobe

Thick and fluffy, Clara pulled her winter coat out of the cupboard and shook it, causing some vindictive dust to fly about in the air. She checked it over for any tears and nodded to herself—it would still do for another year.

“What’s that for?” the Doctor asked. Clara glanced over to see him standing by the kitchen door, spooning yogurt out of a pot into his gob.

“I know you haven’t exactly noticed, but it’s _cold outside_ ,” she replied. “Got to make sure I don’t need another coat.”

“If you were so concerned about your coat, we could have gotten one from the TARDIS,” he shrugged. “It’s not like there’s a wardrobe in there or anything.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the point. The point is that I already have one in my cupboard that I barely used last winter because it was so warm, and now they’re calling for a rather chilly season…”

“I’d still get one of the coats from the TARDIS if you were really in want of one.” He scraped the side of the yogurt pot with the spoon and popped the rest in his mouth. “Romana was about your size once… Sarah Jane too, now that I think about it… Nyssa…? Dodo…? Maybe…?”

“All this is telling me is that you need more non-female friends,” Clara said. “We should get you in a pub league.”

“…for what…?”

“Football; I thought you loved playing football.”

“In case you haven’t noticed: these boots are no longer made for football,” the Doctor scowled, motioning at his feet.

“You don’t wear boots to play football.”

“You know what I mean.” He followed her as she went into the sitting room and laid the coat out on the sofa. She undid the zipper and opened it more, unfolding it completely, which only made to confuse him. “Don’t you _wear_ coats?”

“Yeah, but it’s been in the cupboard for _months_ , you berk. I’m gonna air it out.”

“That is not necessary,” he scoffed. “I’ll show you.”

Clara raised her eyebrow and folded her hands across her chest as the Doctor dipped into the TARDIS, disappearing for a few minutes before returning wearing a completely different coat. It was green velvet, which admittedly looked good on him despite the fact it seemed a bit long in the sleeves.

“What is this?”

“An old coat of mine,” he claimed. “Took it directly out of the wardrobe.”

“…and you act as though the TARDIS doesn’t just automatically deodorizes that for you.”

“It does; take a whiff.” He shoved his forearm under her nose, causing her to step back in disgust.

“You idiot—that smells in desperate need of cleaning,” she cringed. He shrugged and went back into the ship. Clara attempted to return to tidying up the flat, though was interrupted by another coat, this one loud and colorful and short in the arms (not to mention big in the chest). “That doesn’t give me any hope.”

“Come on—the other one was a fluke.” He tried approaching her forearm-first, only for her to duck out of the way despite the tight quarters the sitting room afforded her.

“find something that doesn’t look like it came out of a dead clown’s wardrobe and we’ll talk!” she giggled. He considered that, ruled out another outfit, and nodded before going back into the TARDIS.

Finally: she could finish getting out her winter clothes while the Doctor was occupied. Clara continued going in and out of the cupboard, getting the couple boxes with her winter things and putting away the last remnants of her summer clothes. She was fluffing out an extra blanket when she heard the TARDIS door open; the Doctor was back…

…except, when she turned around, she saw him in an oversized, fluffy fur coat.

He looked like he was drowning in a bear. The sight was just too much and she laughed so hard that she couldn’t breathe.

 ** _Fine_** —what was Human fashion sense anyhow?


	5. Phobia/Missing Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1466 words; more like a missing adventure, but whatever; takes place in 1930-something, but also mid-s10; I can imagine Twelve as a [grand]dad who really tries and so therefore that’s how this jaunt in space and time was even considered; this made me very sad to write but hey angst is what this ship does best apparently

Bill enjoyed it when she’d sneak away from modern life with the Doctor. They’d dress up fancy and ponce about and head out for a fortnight or so on the town, whichever town that was, and she’d end up having more fun than she probably should have for the times they were in. This particular go-around, however, they were in Paris, hoping to get in a show, when she noticed that he was in one of his moods again. He was staring out over a graveyard, his breath coming out in tiny puffs of mist as a light snow fell around them.

“Doctor, _come on_ ; you promised me _Josephine Baker_ ,” Bill insisted. She pulled her jacket a bit tighter against the evening chill—damn, she was glad that she could wear trousers and a thick wool men’s coat and not look out of place. “I don’t need you getting melancholy now that we’re finally out of Nardole’s supervision.” She looked at his face and saw that it was a bit more sad than usual… of course… it _had_ to be when potential backstage access was on the line. “Hey… everything alright?”

“Yeah… it’s nothing,” he lied. He glanced over at Bill and attempted to crack a smile. “We better get going; you’ve got an _émigré_ to woo.”

“You make it sound like I’m using you to shag my way across time and space,” she groused. “Meanwhile, you’re acting a bigger space-case than NASA. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know…” They both looked back over the graveyard, feeling what was almost the pull of—dare she say it—adventure. The Doctor opened the gate and entered, leaving Bill to figure out whether or not she was going to follow him. “There’s something about his place…”

“…that’s creeping me out,” she finished. She paused, considering her options, and then followed him. “Cor, Doctor, let’s just do what we set out to do! Don’t promise a girl a chance to see things only previously-seen in grainy, black-and-white Wikipedia photos, only to go through a cemetery instead!”

“ _Graveyard_ , Bill. It’s full.”

“I don’t care what it’s called! I want to go see Chiquita eat a flautist!”

“Don’t lie—that’s my department.” He then stopped at a grave, staring at the headstone. A quick glance to the right and left made it so that he could see that _they_ had names, yet this one… there was nothing. It was smooth and nameless as though it had been new, despite the fact there were dates underneath to the contrary.

“What are you staring at?” Bill asked. She watched as the Doctor knelt down in front of a headstone and touched the cold surface. “Someone you knew?”

“I’d know if there was a name there,” he frowned. That set off a switch in her brain.

“Uhh… there _is_ a name there,” she said. “Can’t you read it?”

“There’s nothing there.”

“No, it’s right here.” She pointed at the blank space on the stone and opened her mouth, though no sound came out. The Doctor stared at her, puzzled.

“Wait, what?”

“It’s———” No sound again. “Can’t you read?” She saw his face become muddled in a vast amount of emotions and she knew that something was making it so that he couldn’t. What was it about a headstone that had been there for almost eighty years that was stopping him from reading it?

“That definitely sounds like a problem,” a new voice said. Bill and the Doctor both looked to their right, only to see a woman standing a few meters away from them. She had brown hair and eyes and pale skin that seemed to be reddened from the cold. “Do you mind? You’re standing where I need to be.”

“Is this a relative of yours, or someone famous?” Bill asked. The stranger shook her head.

“Not exactly.” She used her fingernail to open a compartment in the headstone and quickly punched a code into the pinpad that until then had been hidden from view. The compartment closed and the headstone sank into the ground, the sight of which made both the Doctor and Bill’s eyes boggle.

“Are you one of him?” Bill asked, pointing at the Doctor. The woman grinned.

“That’s not a very precise a question,” she shrugged. A small opening appeared in the ground and she jumped into it. Bill and the Doctor looked at one another in confusion and a blaster gun and a backpack came popping out, with the woman following before the hole closed itself up and turned into an unassuming grave again. “Try again.”

“Are you a Time Lord? Or I guess, a Time Lady?”

“Better.”

“You sure about that?” the Doctor asked. He made eye contact with the woman and something in the back of his brain, in one of the innermost layers of his mental faculties, began going off. “Wait… do I know you?” The woman hesitated, something about her face seeming incredibly sad.

“Possibly.” She turned and began to walk away, leaving the other two standing agape in the cold.

“You know her,” Bill said, a bit dumbfounded. “How do you know her?”

“I’m not sure.” He then looked at the young woman and raised an eyebrow. “How can _you_ tell?”

“She looks at you like you’re someone she’s shagged _multiple times_ ,” she explained. “C’mon—let’s see what she’s getting up to.” She then went to go catch up with the woman, the Doctor now the one left to consider if he was going to follow.

He did.

The pair popped out on the other side of the graveyard, on a different street that was filled with pedestrians and vehicles getting all sorts of in the way. It took a bit, but they found the woman, despite her lack of height and unnatural ability to blend in, and went to catch up to her. She was almost inside a café when the Doctor was close enough to touch her hand, which made her freeze mid-step.

“Who are you…?” he wondered. They mystery woman looked at him, her eyes large and round and sad.

“We can’t keep doing this,” she said. His face was full of confusion and anxiety, which made it hurt to look at all the more. “You need to move on, my clever boy, and be a Doctor.”

“…but what are you doing here? How do I know you?”

“You don’t… not anymore…”

“Uh… Doctor…?” Bill kept staring at the inside of the café… which decidedly was less Parisian chic and more Americana kitsch… this didn’t seem on the level at all. She looked back at her mentor in just enough time to see the woman pull him down into a kiss. It was very confusing to see the Doctor, who to her no longer had a sexual bone in his entire body (because, really, it was mostly the two of them and _Nardole_ for crying out loud), lean into the embrace of a strange woman nearly a foot shorter and possessing a science-fiction-y gun and a backpack filled with who-knew-what.

They kissed for what felt like a small eternity, with the Doctor stumbling back into the street when it broke. Bill pulled him back up onto the pavement and away from the moving vehicles still on the road, only to find that when she looked back at the café, it had vanished into an empty storefront.

“What the hell was that?!” Bill wondered. She took note of how the Doctor was more than a bit wobbly and put her shoulder under his arm to support him.

“Hallucinogenic lipstick,” he said, missing the point. “I didn’t know it was that common of a thing.”

“Okay, now, who was the woman _wearing_ the hallucinogenic lipstick?”

“I…” The Doctor almost got his bearings, but stumbled away from Bill and into a nearby trash bin, where he vomited. His young friend let him be for a moment, allowing him some time to purge the effects of the lipstick from his system as though it had been just one too many pints. “That’s some strong stuff—wasn’t expecting that. Might be some aftereffects for a while…”

“I should have expected this at some point,” she sighed. Bill then hooked the Doctor’s arm in hers and began leading him down the pavement. “There you are… now let’s go see Chiquita terrorize the orchestra.”

“You just want to see tits.”

Yeah—with that sort of language, he was still under the influence. “Don’t put it like that or I might tell Nardole where and when we’ve been, and that we may or may not have seen some scandalous lady parts.”

…and yes, she definitely would have dared, if only to see the cyborg lose a bolt at the mention of _anything_ as scandalous as a kiss.


	6. Eternity/Fairytales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1152 words; I think I captured the essence of a fairy tale in this, I might not have, but oh well; definitely an AU, as it reuses an OC used in From Kertix to Shoreditch ( https://archiveofourown.org/works/20261248 ); it’s, again, just Twelve’s Incredibly Sexy Dad Skills in a fic interlude, and not much more; so late because of stuff and things and hey at least I’m finishing it; posting this is actually a treat for me for getting halfway through something else so pls be patient with me and the final part of this

The Doctor glanced over the top of his book as he felt another presence in the sitting room. Standing there, at the foot of the couch he was reclined on that night, was the child that he and Clara had picked up in their adventures, the one who was now grounding him to a sedentary life with much fewer trips around time and space and many more down to Sainsbury’s. The Time Lord wouldn't refer to it as a negative thing—as it was a change to his life he accepted willingly if Clara did as well—yet he still knew the child was acutely aware of _why_ they were currently in a flat in Shoreditch and not elsewhere, which he was sure made the boy nervous about the entire situation.

“What’s the matter, Neil?”

Silence.

“Did you have a bad dream?”

A nod, then hiding behind his plush moose toy; at least the Doctor knew he was now getting somewhere. He took a quick glance at the clock—just after one in the morning—and knew that he needed to handle this himself to ensure that Clara got some sleep. Closing his book, the Time Lord put it down and held open his arms, allowing the boy to scurry up and snuggle into him. He stroked the boy’s bright ginger hair and took note of the fact he had left behind his glasses—not because he needed them to see, but because it was what turned his violet skin a paler, more Clara-aligned, pink. Neil clung to the Doctor’s jumper, taking comfort in the other extraterrestrial’s presence.

“How would you like to hear a story?” the Doctor offered.

A nod.

“Once, there was a little boy, not too different from yourself,” he started. “He lived on a far-away planet, where the sky and dirt were the same dusty red. It was a hard life, and not because he was always hungry or his body always hurt, but because he was teased, he was shunned, and he was _different_. The other kids knew, and they saw him as trouble.”

Neil gasped, causing the Doctor to chuckle. “Most children are better at accepting those who are different than these were,” he explained. “The children in this story are ones who believed the lies of mean adults. They accepted being cruel as what life should be, and they knew the perfect one to practice their cruelty on was the little boy. No matter what the nice adults said and did to make it stop, the bullying continued, because nothing works when children see how fully their adults could be consumed by hatred, and how much those adults can get away with in the end.

“It was because of this the boy grew up very lonely, with few friends, and fewer yet who were kind and gentle as he was—even amongst his friends he was different, and it hurt because it was not something to celebrate. The years went by, and he was often tempted to become as cruel as his peers, yet he never did. He knew that hate is always foolish, that love is always wise, and that these would be truths that would comfort him in the middle of the night, when he ran away from the rest of the children to hide in an old barn where he could be safe from their taunts and abuses.

“Time went on, and he began to run further than the barn, not sure he was ever going to find somewhere to belong. Soon, the entire planet was too small and he made his way out into the stars. As he traveled, he met many kinds of people in his adventures. Some were good, others were bad, but most importantly, he found other misfits, just like him. He made them his friends, his family, and more, because he saw their worth and they saw his in return.”

“…like us…?” Neil wondered softly, breaking his nerve-wracked silence. The Doctor chuckled as he skritched the boy’s scalp.

“A lot like us, actually,” he admitted. “The boy made a lot of mistakes along the way. Sometimes it was about his new friends and family, while other times it was about those who disliked them. He made mistakes about who he let close, and he learned oh so terribly much… but you know what…?”

“…what…?”

“Mistakes are part of what makes life worth living.” He used the arm he had around Neil’s shoulders to squeeze him supportively. The boy looked at him with his large, grey eyes and his guardian’s hearts melted. “You want to know what else does that…?”

A nod.

“…the things we do very much on purpose,” he assured. The Doctor shifted so that he and Neil both sat up on the couch. “Up you go—back to bed.”

Neil pouted sadly, though trudged back to his bedroom without more protest. He allowed the Doctor to follow him, the Time Lord tucking the Kertixi lad into the bedding.

“Dad…?”

He raised a brow—although that was not new, it was rare. “Yes…?”

“…did the little boy live happily ever after? That is what they say on this planet… did he…?”

“Oh…” He paused and nodded. “I’ll have to get back with you on that. Do you want to know what I predict?” Neil nodded, with the Doctor idly fussing over the blanket and sheet. “I think it’s going to be a good ending after all. Now get some sleep, yeah? Mam wants us to go shopping with her tomorrow.” The boy giggled and closed his eyes, hugging his moose toy close.

“Good night, Dad.”

“Good night, Son,” the Doctor replied. He left the nightlight on and the door open a crack as he exited the room. Going back to the sitting room, he tried picking the book back up, though couldn’t seem to concentrate on it any longer. He put the book down again and made for the bedroom—it was probably a good idea to sleep his newfound restlessness off.

It was only within the safety of the bedroom, with the door slightly ajar and the TARDIS glowing in the corner, did the Doctor begin to shed his layers. His hoodie and shirts, his boots and socks, and even his trousers all came off, until he was standing there in only pants. He slid into bed alongside Clara, feeling the different sorts of softness that was her skin and nightie as he snugged himself against her.

“Mmm… Doctor…?” She was still asleep, though only just. “Did I hear Neil?”

“He’s back in bed now,” he assured her. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Gotcha…” She shifted in the bed so she could wrap her arms around his middle, resting against his chest. They were warm and cozy as they settled in the bed; few moments were quite as enjoyable—as indulgent—as this. “Night.”

“Night.”


	7. Dancing/Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The last of it! I was trying to put off posting this until I finished-finished a couple other things, but I keep thinking about it so here everyone goes.
> 
> 747 words; takes place vaguely mid-s9; so fluffy-sweet it might contribute to diabetes; this was such a nice set of prompts even if I did get them done late I need to do this again

“ _TARDIS Voice Interface System activated. What is the issue at hand?_ ”

The Doctor stared at the image of his former traveling companion and swallowed hard. She too had been short with brown hair and a powerful personality, much like his current co-traveler, though he never expected the sight of her young and vibrant again to be so painful. He had last seen her with more lines on her face, with many years gone, and it was one of those faces he could never forget… it was almost as though the TARDIS was trying to tell him that he had a type.

“I need help,” he told the holographic projection.

“ _What is the issue at hand?_ ” Ugh… it was so _static_ … there definitely needed to be an upgrade in the programming.

“I’ve never danced in this body before, but Clara wants to go dancing,” he frowned. “I need to know I don’t need to practice.”

“ _How did you want to be assessed?_ ”

He gnawed at his right pointer knuckle and frowned. “Are you able to simulate dancing?”

“ _There are many things that can be simulated_.”

“…is dancing one of these things?”

“ _Yes_.” The projection did not hesitate.

“Then can we… erm…?” He felt silly, even going about things this way, but it was generally safer than asking an _actual_ person. Last time he attempted such a thing, it was asking Jenny about novels, which ended up leading into an uncomfortably erotic conversation when Vastra joined in.

The voice interface was definitely safer.

“ _Explain_.”

“Dance…?” the Doctor said. “Can we dance? Then I get assessed from that?”

“ _Yes_.”

Making several mental notes to go through the software later on, the Doctor stepped forward and held out his arms, as though he was truly going to dance. The gentle static field of the holographic projection brushed against him as he put one hand on his former companion’s “waist” and the other in her “hand”. Music started and he began to waltz across the room—one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four—the projection moving along as he did.

“ _You are leading_ ,” the projection stated. “ _Clara leads_.”

“Not like…”

“ _Clara leads; again_.”

The Doctor pouted as the holographic image changed their course mid-step, sweeping him along as he was continually “assessed” by the TARDIS. He kept on passing through the projection’s internal field, his body accidentally slicing into the image before him.

“ _Assessment is poor_ ,” the Voice Interface said.

“Well, that was fast.”

“ _Practice is necessary—it is advised that you seek assistance_.”

He scowled at that. “How would you know?”

“Oh, I think she knows.”

The Doctor’s hearts tightened in fear as he heard Clara’s voice from the door. As the Voice Interface dissolved into the air, he turned, seeing her leaning against the wall with a smirk on her face.

_Oh._

“You saw that, didn’t you?”

“Not all of it, but enough,” she admitted. Clara pushed herself off the wall and began walking over towards the Doctor, trying not to laugh as she watched pink blush creep across his face. “Why were you practicing?”

“I was not practicing, Clara; I was _being assessed_.”

“You still looked like you were practicing.” Now she was directly in front of him, their bodies only inches apart. “Is this about our date later in the week?”

He attempted to shrug nonchalantly—it looked more like a nervous tic than anything.

“Then hold my hand,” she ordered, voice gentle and understanding. He cradled her hand in his, allowing her to place her other on her waist. “Music.”

The waltz from before picked back up, with the two beginning to dance their way across the floor of the otherwise-empty room. Clara indeed led their steps, but was careful as she guided the Time Lord about. He stumbled occasionally, though did not step on his dancing partner, which was good enough for his book. They danced through to the end of the song, gazing longingly into one another’s eyes as they slowed to a standstill. Bringing his face down to hers, Clara kissed the Doctor gently before stepping back slightly, giving him some space.

“With a bit of practice, we might make a dancer out of this face yet,” she claimed.

“You think so…?” he wondered. He gave her a look he knew she could barely resist, his effort rewarded when she stepped forward again, pressing her chest against him.

“I know so,” she assured. “Waltz me into a stupor, you dashing boy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”


End file.
